


In Vino Veritas

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: “Timmy?” Armie cajoles, and Timmy turns his feet inward and rubs his toes against each other. “Is that my shirt?”Timmy worries his lower lip between his teeth and rubs a hand absently against his neck. “Um...no?”Based on a Tumblr prompt here: http://anttoxicated.tumblr.com/post/174283136109/armie-is-that-my-shirt-timmy-wearing-a-shirtThank you Anttonela and the rest of my Slack family as always.





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anttoxicated](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anttoxicated/gifts).



Armie has never seen Timmy this drunk before.

It’s the second week of filming and they’re wrapping up one of Luca’s legendary dinner parties. Armie’s been watching Timmy pretty much all night and he swears Timmy hasn’t had that much to drink, but when they go to leave Timmy falls against Armie in the doorway, unsteady on his feet. When Armie reaches out to steady him he tries to ignore the warmth that shoots through everywhere in his body that’s touching Timmy. This is the most contact they’ve had outside the set so far, and Armie can’t say he minds having Timmy’s slim frame pressed against him as they maneuver out Luca’s door and onto the street outside.

Timmy’s apartment is only a few doors down from Armie’s but Armie’s already determined he’ll have to walk Timmy home first. He’s still got his arm around Timmy, Timmy’s curls resting on his shoulder, and every few steps Timmy bumps his foot against Armie’s and giggles. When they pass Armie’s apartment door Timmy slurs into Armie’s shoulder, “can I come up for--a secon’? Swear it won’t take long, I just--jus’ need a bathroom.”

“Timmy, your apartment’s right there--” Armie makes to gesture with his free hand, but suddenly Timmy’s looking up at him, curls falling into his eyes, blowing at them ineffectually out of one corner of his mouth, and Armie’s first instinct is to reach over and brush them out of Timmy’s eyes and before he can think how wrong that is,  _ this is your co-star, he’s drunk, do you even know if he’s interested, Hammer? you and your poor impulse control _ , he’s gone and done it, moved the curls out of Timmy’s eyes. And now things are  _ worse _ , because Timmy’s hair is so soft, so goddamn soft under his fingers it feels like cotton candy and now he’s thinking about how Timmy would  _ taste _ , and also those green eyes are looking up at him with complete trust, and Armie expected them to be blank with drunkenness but they’re not, they’re  _ interested _ , they’re  _ sharp _ and Armie wants to do things to earn that interest and then keep it and then build on it until he’s made something he can be proud of. Then Timmy blinks, and the moment is gone.

“Come on up,” Armie sighs, resigned. He’ll just stick to water, let his wine buzz wear off, and spend his day off tomorrow getting back into a professional head space that definitely  _ does not _ involve falling in love with his co-star.  _ His smart, funny, awkward, trusting, talented co-star _ . 

Once they’re inside Armie’s apartment Armie gestures toward the master bedroom, through which is his bathroom. “It’s through there, Tim, but you know that, right? You’ve been in here before?” He turns toward the bedroom, motions toward it, and turns back to Timmy--or rather, where Timmy was standing a minute ago. “Tim?” Armie calls, and finds Timmy in the tiny kitchen, rummaging through the fridge until he finds a half-empty bottle of wine left over from Armie’s dinner earlier in the week.

“Delicious,” Timmy pronounces, leering exaggeratedly at the wine bottle, supporting himself on the refrigerator door and rocking it back and forth. He grasps the cork in his straight white teeth and pulls, frowning when it doesn’t come out quickly and eventually grasping it in his long fingers to pull it out of the neck of the bottle. Timmy’s nose wrinkles when he tastes the bitterness of the cork, and when Armie tries to think of any word in the world but  _ adorable _ all he ends up thinking is  _ so fucking adorable _ .

Timmy tips the wine bottle toward his mouth and Armie’s moving toward him to say  _ Tim, I think you’ve had enough _ or  _ Please stop that long enough for me to kiss you _ or  _ Do you know how at home you look in the spaces I live in _ when Timmy’s hand shakes unsteadily and the wine goes all over his blue polo shirt. “Shitttt…” Timmy drawls the ending consonant. “I’m so sorry Armie, I’m so sorry.” He places the wine bottle on Armie’s counter and scrambles for a towel to wipe up any wine that’s dripped onto the floor.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Armie murmurs, “Just go to the bathroom--it’s  _ that way _ ,” and he gestures pointedly in the direction he had been trying to guide Timmy from the start. “Get yourself cleaned up and let me worry about the floor,” he says, more gently, not wanting to sound harsh.

Armie swipes at the floor with a hand towel; there’s not that much wine there to start with since most of it landed on Timmy. He throws the damp towel into a hamper and sips a glass of water. A minute passes, then what feels like another minute.  _ Is he OK in there?  _ Armie wonders.

He approaches his bedroom, through which he can see light under the bathroom door. Timmy’s voice is coming from inside the bathroom. Armie pauses in the doorway to the bedroom, not wanting to intrude. He can’t hear what Timmy’s saying, just the rhythm of his voice, but something sounds off about it. He listens for a moment to the steady rise and fall, the clear pauses, the regular rhythm, and then it hits him. It hits him with a dead certainty that comes from Armie’s years of drinking experience.

_ Timmy sounds sober. _

At that moment Armie would have bet six figures that Timmy wasn’t drunk. He approaches the bathroom door, intending to knock, and when he gets closer he hears a few muttered words in French followed by a clear, “I love you too. Goodnight Pauline!”

_ OK, Hammer, don’t jump to conclusions _ . Armie knocks gently at the bathroom door and hears noises of frantic scrambling within. “Timmy? You OK in there? Just checking in.” Armie tries not to sound mad but is afraid his voice still trembles at the thought of Timmy in  _ his  _ bathroom, with his shirt off, running water over the wine stain, touching the same soap that touches Armie’s body every morning.

The bathroom door opens and the first thing Armie sees is Timmy’s polo shirt in a ball on his bathroom floor.  _ Oh god that means he’s not wearing a shirt, that’s what I’m going to see isn’t it, and it won’t be the same if the crew isn’t around and it’s just us and the darkness and the desire _ , but the same thing in Armie that made him touch Timmy’s hair makes him seek Timmy in the sliver of light from the bathroom door, and he sees that he’s wearing a shirt and thinks  _ good _ before he sees  _ what shirt _ it is and thinks  _ oh no _ .

Timmy’s in a beat-up gray T-shirt that stretches to his knees and bears the name of a bar in Dallas that Armie loves. Armie loves it so much he bought that shirt himself, the last time he was in Dallas, and has worn it running and snorkeling and for an entire afternoon at the Santa Monica Pier, but as soon as he sees it hanging on Timmy’s slender frame, the shoulder seams hitting halfway down Timmy’s arms, he feels like the shirt was brought into the world to do exactly what it’s doing right now.

“Timmy?” Armie cajoles, and Timmy turns his feet inward and rubs his toes against each other. “Is that my shirt?”

Timmy worries his lower lip between his teeth and rubs a hand absently against his neck. “Um...no?” but it’s more of a question than an answer, and when Timmy’s other hand starts to twist the hem of the shirt and he realizes how long it is, he breaks into a half-grin, looking sheepishly at Armie.

“Tim?” Armie asks, dropping his voice and taking a step closer to Timmy in order to be heard, “are you really drunk enough to have spilled all that wine? Was that just an excuse?”

Timmy’s hand drifts from his neck to his head, where he starts curling strands of hair around his fingers. “Maybe?” It comes out as another question.

For the first time in a long time, Armie has heard a question he instantly knows the answer to. He closes the remaining distance between them in a single step until the length of his body is pressed against Timmy’s. He feels that Timmy is trembling, reaches to him, cups a hand under his chin. When he turns Timmy’s face to the light he sees Timmy’s eyes are clear, amused, uncertain, and he marvels again at Timmy’s ability not only to feel a thousand things at once but to express them all so clearly and simultaneously.

“Timmy,” Armie breathes, and he barely feels the name in his throat, feels it more as a breath that keeps him alive than a plea he makes outside his body. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

_ “Yes.” _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr, come say hi!


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